


Daredevils, by Allie

by hutchynstarsk



Series: Ranch Hands [2]
Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: AU, Flying, Gen, Historical AU, Travel, post-WW1, ranch story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:47:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk





	Daredevils, by Allie

Daredevils

_This is the sequel to Ranch Hands.  I owe a big thank you to Sabine!  She's the one who gave me the ideas that got this story started, and beta'd and encouraged me.  I wouldn't have written this story without her encouragement and suggestions.  :)_

_All historical errors are my own, and I welcome comments, on this or anything about the story.  :)_

  


  


  


  


Daredevils

Practice was paying off; Starsky sat a horse well.

Hutch watched clinically, approving the metered gait of the horse, and the easy way Starsky sat in his saddle.

Starsky reined up close to him, turning the horse sideways and smiled down at Hutch with his eyes, his whole face.  “Hey.”

Now, in the sticky heat of July, it was difficult to sell anything to anyone; but surely the lure of the wind in your hair, and an escape to all your problems—however briefly—would induce some sales, some people to take a flight.

A new town meant new possibilities; perhaps they hadn’t gotten any fliers through here lately, the way the last place had.  They’d seemed positively bored with Hutch’s homemade sign advertising airplane rides…

Starsky gripped Hutch’s elbow, and looked up into his eyes.  “Everything okay?  With the bird, I mean?”

#

The bird—Starsky’s nickname for the Jenny.  

He’d been up once, and it had been enough to show him he wasn’t, after all, cut out for the job of a wingwalker.  Poor Starsk; he’d been so convinced he was perfect for the job.  He’d thought it could be a great two man act.  

And, truth be told, it would’ve been.  It would’ve sold better than airplane rides to poor farmers, anyway.  But Starsky was not cut out for a life in the air.   On Starsky’s first ride, the curly-headed man’s face had blanched, and his knuckles had turned white, gripping the sides of the plane too hard.  Hutch had gone easy on him, too—no fancy maneuvers, not flying too close to the ground, not going too fast or doing anything even remotely risky.  

He remembered the conversation they’d held in the air…

“Starsky, it’s perfectly safe.”

“I know, Hutch.  You’re driving.”  Starsky’s hands didn’t loosen their grip for a moment, and his voice sounded strangled.

“Not driving—flying.”  Hutch couldn’t help grinning; the wind in his face felt so great, a good memory, finally, from the war—flying, and now flying his own dear plane.  Yes, perhaps, it wasn’t in the best shape—the ‘Jenny’ had never been a particularly excellent piece of machinery at its prime, and now it was an outdated machine the government was selling off in record quantities, just to be rid of the dang things.

“Flying,” agreed Starsky through gritted teeth.  Hutch glanced back, and saw he’d closed his eyes tightly, as if praying for this whole thing to be over.

“Buddy, you’ve got to look down at the ground.  We’re perfectly safe.  You can see so far.  Starsk.  I want you to see it.”  He wanted to share this beautiful, peaceful world with his best friend.  

“Hutch,” complained Starsky, in a strangled voice.

“Just one look.  See?  I’m turning around.  I’m bringing it down.  I don’t want you to miss this, Starsk.”

Starsky took a deep breath, forced one eye open nervously, and peered over the side.

What he saw—the lovely, quilt-like fields, the beautiful stretch of soft-colored earth beneath—made him shudder, blanch further, and draw back.  He closed his eyes again tightly, and spoke out of the side of his mouth.  “Tell me when we’re down.”

At last, Hutch bumped the Jenny gently to a landing in the same field they’d started out from, turned the roaring engine off, slid off his goggles, and turned to look at Starsky, half apologetic, half in dismay.

He didn’t say a word, and Starsky didn’t either.  Starsky clambered out of the plane on shaky limbs.  He walked away, his gait long and wobbly, not nearly as cocky and tough as usual.  Hutch watched, his face growing longer.

He thought that would be the end—they’d have to break up their quirky partnership, and go their separate ways—because Starsky would never let him sell the plane just for his sake.

But it hadn’t been.  Starsky turned bright and cheerful and offered his help as a mechanic.  He was good with engines; almost a whizz.  He could sell tickets, too, and talk up Hutch’s flying—it certainly was fast, and very high up.  He’d buy a good horse, and ride ahead to the next town, the next stop on the map, and advertise.  What did Hutch think?

It was better than nothing.  So they didn’t arrive everywhere at the exact same time.  Starsky was always waiting for Hutch, already had him talked up as the next Svengali of the air.  The shows actually sold better when Hutch had his advanced guard to talk him up.  But this meant Starsky had to leave ahead of time; he wasn’t around much.

The last town had been a dismal spot, but Hutch worked up what little excitement he could, and sold a few rides to tired farmers and their kids.  But Starsky was gone again on his new horse, to the next town to advertise.

Today, he’d come out to meet Hutch in the farmer’s field, before anyone else but the farmer arrived.  (The farmer had been an easy one, pleased about the airplane, concerned about his field, but very willing to accept some monetary compensation so Hutch could station himself here.)

Starsky’s work had been done well.  A couple of kids wandered out and asked if this was THE Jenny, if he was the Amazing ‘Flying Ace’ Hutchinson.

Starsky’s stories got broader every time.  Soon Hutch would find out he’d taken on Baron von Richthofen, and won.

#

Starsky smiled at him, dusty from the road, waiting for his answer about the plane.  “Well?”

“The Jenny’s fine.  Maybe some fresh oil.”

“Right.  I’ll get right on that.”  Starsky nodded.  He tethered the horse, and clambered into the plane to get the tin of oil in the back seat, then moved towards the engine.  “You staying here?” asked Starsky, glancing back, bent over the engine.

“Yeah.  Negotiated the deal already.”  Hutch pulled off his helmet and scrubbed a hand back through his hair.  “I’ll sleep in the barn, give rides from here.”

“Oh.  Well, I’m kinda already stayin’ across town.  Nice little place.  Rented a room and everything—real cheap, Hutch, and they’ve got great food.  Three squares a day…lots of ham.  You should come.”

“Ham?”  Hutch snorted.  “You’re Jewish.”

“Hutch, you know I don’t eat kosher.  Life’s too short and I’m too poor.  Meat’s meat—ya gotta eat it when ya can get it.”

“Yeah?  How about skunk?  Would you eat skunk?”

“Depends if it tastes like it smells.”  He dusted off his hands and straightened, turning to Hutch with a smile.  “Come on.  You look like you could use a few good meals.”  He reached out and gave Hutch a swat on the gut.  “See?  You’re all skinny.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk!”  Hutch hooked an arm around Starsky’s neck and tugged him closer, giving Starsky’s side a little pinch.  “You’re skin and bones.”

“Ow.”  Starsky squirmed free, making a face, but smiling, too.  He gave Hutch a push.  Hutch smiled at him and took a step back.  Starsky followed closely, gave him another push, and hooked his leg around Hutch’s.  They both went down.

“Oof.”  Hutch landed in the alfalfa. 

“You break a nice fall.”  Starsky smiled down at him, patted his chest, and rolled off.  “Man.  Sky’s blue today.”  He stared up at it, arms stretched over his head.

“Bluer from up there,” observed Hutch.  Starsky frowned a little at the mention of flying, but said nothing.  Hutch rolled sideways and smiled at him.  “Lotta ham, you say?”

“Yeah—and it’s almost suppertime, so move your ass!”  He hopped up, and grabbed Hutch’s hand to pull him to his feet.

Hutch rose reluctantly—the alfalfa field was actually kind of soft once you got used to it.  Probably softer than the straw he’d have been sleeping on, if Starsky hadn’t rented that room.

“C’mon, Red.”  Starsky untethered his horse, making a kissing sound in its direction.

Hutch rolled his eyes.

“C’mon, Hutch!”  He swung into the saddle, and held a hand down, offering to help Hutch up.

Hutch made a face.  “Uh—you know, I think I’ll walk.”

“Aw, Hutch!  Don’t be like that.  He’s a great horse, an’ you know it.”  He waved his hand impatiently down at Hutch, frowning a little.

Hutch sighed exaggeratedly, and allowed Starsky to help him swing up in the saddle behind him.  “Oughta let me sit in front,” he muttered, sliding his arms around Starsky’s waist.

“You rode him first.”  Starsky turned around enough so he could catch Hutch’s eye, and smiled at him, no doubt remembering how he’d gotten his new horse…

#

“If I’m gonna ride ahead, I need a better horse.  No offense to our friend here, but he can’t keep up any kind of pace.  Seems kinda cruel to make him.”  Starsky had patted the side of the broken down horse, and looked at Hutch, waiting.

“All right.  If you think best.”

“You’re a good judge o’ horses, Hutch.  Maybe ya can help me pick one?”

Hutch hesitated.   Horses were still a sore spot, since his beloved Dorothy had died.  But Starsky needed a dependable ride, if he meant to play salesman.  “All right.  I’ll help you pick one.”

“Thanks, Hutch.”  Starsky’s quick smile brightened the day.  

Hutch looked away, feeling ashamed for getting Starsky’s hopes up.  Ever since Dorothy died, Starsky had been rather subtly trying to help Hutch heal.  He seemed to think bonding with another horse would be the final step for Hutch—and that helping Starsky pick a horse was the first step to that.

When they reached the next town, Hutch set out to look for good horses he could bid on, dicker over, or buy outright.

“How much money do you have?” he asked Starsky.  

Starsky gave him a quick, shy look, and mumbled the amount.

“Hm.”  Hutch snorted.  “Can’t get a very good horse for that.  I’ll add some of my money—”

“Hutch!”  Starsky dragged on his arm.  “Don’t you dare!  You spent enough on that bird of yours.  Not gonna bail me out, too!  We’ll just get the best horse we can.”

“I’m in charge about horses, Starsk.  Don’t you forget that.”

“Hmph.  Planes, horses.  Can’t be in charge about everything,” he muttered.

But when it came down to it, Hutch was still hunting for a horse when he saw Starsky eying a corral full of half broke horses with a wistful expression.

“Starsk.  Come on.  The good horses are over here.  You don’t buy one of those unless you’ve got a lot of time and energy to undo the damage somebody else did.”  He hooked Starsky’s arm, and drew him away.

Starsky’s face grew even longer.  “Doin’ damage, to a pretty horse like that?”  He nodded to a reddish stallion with a fine neck and gait, a proudly raised head, and a clever look in his eyes.  He had a whitish blaze down his nose, and white socks on three out of four legs—a looker.

“Aw, Starsk.  You’re asking for trouble.”

“I know.  You’re the boss about horses, Hutch.”  Starsky forced himself to turn away.

But he kept sneaking glances back, and Hutch found he was, too.  The horse was certainly well-built, and could’ve sold for a lot of money if it had been trained properly.  There must be something terribly wrong with it to end up in there, to be sold for little or nothing, or let free or sold for dog meat if no one wanted to buy it for riding.

“How about I try giving him a ride, Starsk?  Hm?”  

Starsky cast Hutch a quick glance.  “You mean it, Hutch?”  He scratched at his hair.  “Don’t wanna put you to any trouble.  Might not be safe.”

“Safe.”  Hutch snorted.  “I was born in a saddle.  Ain’t a horse alive that can throw me.”  He strode towards the corral, and spoke to the man in charge.

In a few moments, he’d bought the stallion for an extremely low sum.  He figured, though he didn’t tell Starsky, that he could just set it free, if it didn’t work out.  The curly-headed man would at least accept that philosophically, whereas if he thought he was abandoning that lively horse to a nasty fate, he would likely get long faced and mournful.  

Hutch and Starsk leaned on the fence, and watched while the seller roped it out for him.  

“He’s a canny one, Hutch.”  Was that admiration in his voice?  Hutch stole a glance.  Sure enough, Starsky was smiling at the horse’s so-far successful attempts to outwit the man.

“You won’t be smiling when you’re the one.”

“Whatcha do if we—you—can’t ride him?”

Hutch snorted.  “Not gonna happen.  Ain’t a horse I can’t ride.”

Starsky cast him a slit-eyed glance, his lashes long and dark, drooping, obscuring most of his blue eyes.  “Talk like that comes before a fall, Hutchie.”

Hutch laughed.

#

“Pass the gravy?” said Starsky, wiping his mouth politely on a checked-cloth napkin.

Half a dozen little hands eagerly complied.  The farming couple had three small children and another on the way.  They were glad of a few extra dollars from room and board to help make ends meet.

Hutch realized, as the chatter of children, and the more polite and weighed conversation of the adults ranged around him, how much he’d missed conversations.  Mostly he was either flying or resting up for flying, or taking people for rides.  None of these activities left a lot of time for talking.  The cozy family atmosphere of the farm left him feeling downright nostalgic, thinking of his mother and father, his grandparents and siblings.

He’d sworn to himself he’d never be a farmer—they worked too hard for too little money—but he’d been a ranch hand, and that was sure hard work, and not even for his own place.  And his flying business was not as easy and carefree as an outsider would suspect.  Maybe he should’ve been a farmer.  It must be nice to be surrounded by family, and not be so lonely.

He waited for a lull in the general conversation.  “Do you know if anyone around here is interested in getting their crops dusted?”  Better to make it general; no need to seem like a salesman at the table.  Besides, he doubted they had the money for anything extra right now.

The couple exchanged looks.  “David already asked around about that.  I don’t believe anyone was interested.”

Starsky paused with a huge bite of ham headed towards his mouth, and shook his head.  “Tried already, Hutch.  Nobody wants to waste the cash.”

“Ahh.”  Well, if Starsky couldn’t sell something, no one could.  Hutch turned back to his peas.  Tender they were; perfect and beautifully coated in butter.

“Hutch,” said Starsky, after the meal, drawing him aside.  “You need a bath, partner.”

“What’s wrong with me?  I washed under the pump just before supper.”  He took a sniff at his clothes; maybe they were a little gamey.

“Need to look respectable, partner.  Stripping to your waist and running a little cold water over yourself ain’t gonna do it.  Your hair’s gettin’ brown.”  He ran a hand up through it, as if to demonstrate, but his eyes were sympathetic.  “Now, I arranged for ‘em to heat the water and give you some privacy and soap.  But you need to do it now, before it gets too late for your hair to dry an’ you get a cold or something.”

Hutch snorted.  “I’m not the one who gets colds!”

Starsky’s eyes narrowed.  “I’m healthy as a horse now, Hutch, an’ y’know it!  Don’t play dice with your health, and don’t himmyhaw around about this, or I’ll come in there and scrub your head myself!”

#

So Hutch ended up sitting in a galvanized tub that had been laboriously filled with water lugged by hand, some cold from the pump, some heated on the wood stove.  He scrubbed at his hair, making a face, lathering soap, and letting it run down him.  What was wrong with washing under a pump?  Starsky could get a little bossy sometimes…

But the water was comforting and warm, soaking the aches out of his body, relaxing him so much he almost fell asleep then and there.  And when he finished, dried off in a big towel, and changed into some clean clothes, he did feel better.  He emerged from the room, clean and only slightly damp.  

The farmer’s wife looked at him, and did a double-take.  “Mr. Hutchinson.  I didn’t realize you had light hair.”  She picked up a stack of plates, and hurried away.  Poor lady; overworked so much her cheeks were getting hot.

And Starsky, who had just started to enter the doorway, grinned at him.  “Told ya so, Hutch.”

#

Ch 2

“Hutch, where ya going with your stuff?”

“Hm?”  Hutch glanced back at him.  “Aw, sorry, Starsk.  I thought I could stay here, but I need to stay with my plane, make sure nobody sabotages her or tries to steal her overnight.”

“Hutch, how could anyone steal a plane overnight?!  It’ll be dark out!”  He frowned at Hutch, tilting his head slightly.  “You wanna sleep in the straw, and wreck that nice bath you just had?”

Hutch turned, frowning, and pointed a finger at him.  “Starsky, if you think I’m going to lose my plane just because of the hedonistic comfort of a bed, you’re wrong.  Dead wrong!  Now I am going back there and you’re not going to stop me.”  He glared, to be sure Starsky had gotten it.

Starsky seemed to sag, his face growing longer.  “Sure, Hutch.  Whatever you think.  I just wanted you to get a good rest.”

“I’ll rest fine in the barn.”  He slung his sack over his shoulder and started out.

“Hutch.  Wait!”

“What?!” he snapped, turning to Starsky with a scowl.  

His friend slunk, taking a step back.  “Just wanted to say you should leave your clothes.  She’s gonna wash ‘em, for a little extra.  We worked it all out.”

This deflated Hutch; there wasn’t much he could say.  “Oh.  All right.  Thanks.”  He knelt down, and awkwardly began to unpack his less-than-clean clothing.

After a moment, Starsky knelt next to him and helped.  “Make sure ya throw a horse blanket over ya or somethin’, okay?”

“Okay, Starsk.”  Hutch spoke quietly.  He shouldn’t have been so gruff with Starsky.  He brought a hand up to Starsky’s head, pushing the curls back, and smiled apologetically.  “Sorry, Starsk.”

Starsky ducked his head.  “S’okay, Hutch.”  His voice was gruff, and he gripped Hutch’s arm, and looked down.  He didn’t try to say anything else.

“You expect a lot out of me, maybe too much.  I can be a jerk sometimes,” said Hutch.  “I’m sorry.”

“No, no.  You’re—fine.”  He moved slightly forward, still on his knees, and rested his curly head against Hutch’s shoulder for a moment.  “Just miss ya, that’s all.”

“Oh.  Me too.  Me too.”  He stroked a hand over Starsky’s head.  

All the same, he knew Starsky shouldn’t miss him, shouldn’t believe in him and expect so much from him.  Hutch wasn’t worth it.  Starsky wasn’t Rover.  He ought to know by now that Hutch wasn’t worth being so loyal to.  At least—he didn’t know if loyal was the word.  But something like loyal—too trusting, perhaps.

They crouched in that awkward position for several long moments, just keeping in contact.  He missed Starsky; he missed sleeping in a warm bed.  But getting sentimental about it wouldn’t do.  He had to stay tough for travel.  Both of them had more nights on the road than not.  

So in the end, he picked up his much-lightened bag, smiled a goodbye to Starsky, and headed back to his plane.

The sun was setting in vibrant shades of red and gold.  He checked the plane over and then curled up on a pile of straw in the barn.  

There was a horse in a nearby stall.  It nickered quietly to him, as if asking Hutch to say something in return.   Hutch squeezed his eyes shut painfully for a moment.  He remembered Dorothy’s nickering…

Then his mind slid back to when he’d first ridden Starsky’s horse, Red…

#

“Gonna ride him bareback, Hutch?” said Starsky, his eyebrows rising.

“Sure am, Starsk.”  He wrapped the reins around his hand and swung onto the horse’s back.  No point in explaining to Starsky that the horse wouldn’t hold still enough for a saddle until he’d gotten it used to the idea of working with a human again.

Who knew how long it had been since someone rode it—probably cruelly, or too hard—and then discarded it when they didn’t need it anymore?  Cowboys.  Yahoos.  Didn’t know enough not to ruin a good piece of horseflesh.

Let Starsky think Hutch was some kind of tough guy.  This was the way it had to be ridden the first time.

Sure enough, the horse began to buck and carry on.  Hutch hooked himself on firmly, and rode with it, letting the horse tire before he tried to rein it in.  Run and buck and carry on.  Ooh, clever horse.  It tried to scrape against a fence, knock Hutch off.  He tugged the reins, turning the horse’s head, forcing it back onto open ground.

Starsky stood far behind now.  Hutch kept riding, giving the horse his head, letting him get his steam out, get used to the idea.

Half an hour later, he rode the horse back, quiet, tired, resigned and peaceful.  He patted its side and talked to it.  The horse shivered a little under his touch, but it was getting used to him.

“You’ll be a good boy, won’t you?  For my friend?” said Hutch quietly.  He dismounted, and looked at the horse closely.  Behind him, Starsky was running up.   Hutch gave the horse another pat.  “Yeah.  I know you will.”

“Hutch,” said Starsky.  He reached Hutch and the horse.  “What happened?  How’d it go?”

Hutch turned to him, and smiled.  “How do you think?  This horse’ll be fine.  We’ll work with him, get rid of his bad habits, and he’ll be a good one for you.” 

Starsky’s face broke out into a wide smile.  “Really?  Thanks, Hutch!”

Hutch continued to ride and work with the horse, calming it and evening out some of its problems.  He could handle it well, but Starsky was impatient; he insisted on riding before it was really ready for him.

Hutch warned him of the risk, but Starsky just got a stubborn look on his face.  “It’s my horse, Hutch.  I’ve gotta ride him sometime!”

So Hutch had metaphorically shrugged, saddled up Red, and left the two of them alone in a small corral.

From the challenging look in Red’s eye, Hutch knew what was coming.  But to his credit, Starsky held on for at least the first three bucks.  Then he went flying from the saddle to land in a heap in the dust.

“Y’all right, partner?” asked Hutch, trying not to grin at Starsky’s expression.

Starsky nodded, getting up and rubbing at his rear.  “Just—fine,” he said in a strained voice.  And started back for the horse, a determined look in his eye.

Red soon learned—though not as quickly as he’d learned with Hutch—that Starsky meant business.  He would be a firm but not unkind master.  In a few days, the two of them could be seen racing against the wind, testing themselves, riding as one.  Hutch paused to admire it, smiling.  Starsky was becoming a real horseman, even if he still needed coaching.

Hutch was both relieved and somehow disappointed when he no longer needed to ride Red, to calm him down.

#

The next day began early.  People wandered out to the field to see the airplane—mostly children, but some adults as well.  To Hutch’s eyes, they all looked too poor to afford even a brief ride.  

Starsky acted as part barker, part ticket taker, part circus clown.  Hutch shook his head, trying to hide his grin when he heard Starsky describing the pleasures of flying above the earth, so high and free.  He certainly had the gift of blarney.

There were no early takers; people wanted to see the plane, but weren’t sure yet if they wanted to pay to go up in it.  Hutch took the Jenny up for a quick spin round the farm.  When he landed, more people stood below, some shading their eyes.  Had the crowd really doubled?  Small they looked, and childlike, somehow, all staring up at the sky, mouths open, watching, amazed.

Starsky edged up to Hutch, shouted over the still-running engine.  “Hutch.  I sold two tickets half price to these kids, if they go at the same time.  Is that okay?”

“Sure, Starsk.  Whatever you think best.”  The truth was, Starsky handled pricing better than he did.  Hutch was pretty good at saving, but he wasn’t good at all about charging the right amount for rides, or getting more people to fly.  He’d probably have flown the children for free if they’d asked politely.

“Climb on up, kids.”  Starsky gave the first kid a boost—a little boy in overalls and bare feet.  His sister scrambled up behind him, all grins, gingham, and whipping braids.

Hutch took them for a nice ride, grinning all the way.  They enjoyed it greatly, alternately gaping wide-eyed and silent in awe, and bouncing around, whistling, laughing, and chattering.  He wished Starsky could’ve been like this, enjoyed it, instead of feeling afraid.  

He flew in for a gentle landing, as the kids whooped and bounced in their seats.  They both wanted to shake his hand, and both said they were going to be pilots when they grew up, and thank you, thank you so much.  Hutch had let them wear his leather helmet, trading it back and forth during the ride.  They handed it back as if it were the most valuable thing in the world.

After that, business picked up.  Other kids put their money together for a ticket, and a few adults sprung for a ride apiece.

By the end of the day, as it was getting dusky and no longer safe for flying, Hutch reined the Jenny in, and they closed up shop. 

“Did we stay ahead, Starsk?”  Hutch climbed down from the cockpit for the last time that day, and tucked the blocks under the wheels.  He knew they’d used plenty of fuel.  He glanced back at his friend.

“Yep.  We did pretty good, Hutch.  And look.”  He held up two bottles, grinning sheepishly. 

Hutch took in the two clear bottles and then his gaze flew to Starsky’s face.  “Vodka?”

Starsky nodded.  “The real stuff.  Not that homemade hooch that blinds ya.  I took it for a ticket.”

“Starsk.”  Hutch rolled his eyes.  “And you say I’m easy!”

“You are.  I’ve seen what you charge when you set the prices!  Anyway, this is worth more than a ticket.  It’s the real stuff.  We can have some tonight, if you want, and resell the rest.  How ‘bout that?  That’s not too wasteful.”

Hutch hesitated.  “Well.  Just a couple shots, maybe.”

#

Two hours later, they were sprawled in the barn on the straw.  Hutch hiccupped.  He lay on the straw with his head resting on Starsky’s lap.  Starsky brought a hand down and patted him on the chest clumsily.

Hutch pushed the hand away.  “I’m not a baby.  Don’t n-need burped.”

Starsky took another slurp, and offered the bottle back to Hutch.  Hutch waved it away.  “Think I had too much.  Urgh.”  He groaned, and rolled sideways, curling smaller on the straw.  

Starsky patted his head.  “Am I a good pillow?” he asked sleepily. 

“I miss you.” Hutch yawned.

“Hm?  What?  I’m right here.”

“In the air.  I miss you.  Always travelling.  Hardly get to see ya.”  He hiccupped again.

“You don’t like travellin’ so much?”  There was something in Starsky’s voice—casual though it was—that made even the fuzzy-brained Hutch think his answer mattered a lot to Starsky.

“Sometimes.”  Hutch shrugged elaborately, clumsy even lying down.  “Sometimes.  I love flying.  But…do I want to do this for the rest of my life?  And can I?  It’s a hard life.  For you, too.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me.  This is a good life.”  He laid a hand on Hutch’s shoulder.  “Get to travel.  See America.  Heartland.”  He yawned loudly.  “If you like it, we’ll keep it up.”  He set the bottle down finally, and stretched out on the straw, next to Hutch.

Hutch frowned, muzzy-headed, trying to make sense of what he wanted to say.  “But…don’t want you sacrificing.  Giving up your life for me.  Just so’s I can fly.”  His eyelids flickered, growing heavier.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.  I’m not.”  He pulled a heavy horse blanket over them both, and slid an arm around Hutch’s waist.  He sighed, and spoke quietly, from close by.  “Not like that at all.  Probably have died or starved to death without you.  This is a good life.”

Hutch rolled over with a groan, and far too much effort.  He faced Starsky, frowning, belligerent with alcohol in his system.  “No, it’s not.  You don’t like it.”

Starsky grinned at him.  “I like you.  I like Red.  I like selling stuff.”  He yawned suddenly, widely.  “And I like to go to sleep.  G’nite, Hutch.”  He snuggled down into the straw, and closed his heavy-lidded eyes.

Hutch frowned, and absently pulled the horse blanket up further to cover Starsky’s shoulders.  Didn’t want him catching cold.  Then he let his own eyes drift shut as well.

Ch 3 

“Urgh.”  Hutch groaned, grimaced, and ducked his head into the bucket again.  It was punishingly cold, but he deserved it.  Never should’ve gotten so drunk last night. He came out streaming, and ran his hands back through his hair, shivering.  The water streamed down over his bare chest.  He used a small piece of flannel to scrub himself, then toweled off with a larger piece.

By the time he’d pulled on fresh jeans, a flannel shirt, and his boots, Starsky was emerging from the barn, scrubbing his head and yawning.

Hutch drew him a fresh bucket of water, and tossed him the flannels.

They managed to get some coffee, and sober up a little, but Hutch fought a headache, and he knew if anyone realized he’d been drinking last night they wouldn’t want to fly with him.  He could hardly blame them.  

He halfway wanted to crawl into the straw and just disappear, sleep for the rest of the day, and he halfway wanted to take David’s horse and go galloping off across the fields until he felt awake and alive again.

The thought of that surprised him more than anything.

“Hutch,” said Starsky, shivering as he pulled on his clean shirt, his teeth chattering a little. 

“Yeah.”  Hutch stepped forward to help him button it; Starsky’s hands were clumsy from the cold.

“How ‘bout we take the day off, hm?  Maybe have a picnic…”

“Ugh,” said Hutch, still revolted at the thought of food.

“…go for a ride, or, I dunno, just relax a little.  I don’t think…”

“Yeah.  Not the best shape for flying.”  Hutch’s reply was clipped off.  Well, what would they do with themselves if they weren’t working hard or travelling constantly?  He’d gotten used to the grind, felt almost afraid of a day off.  

“Starsk,” he said.  “You know what I’m thinking?”

“No.”  Starsky snorted.  “Why doncha tell me?”

“That family, where we’re eating.”

“What about them?”

“I bet they haven’t had a day off in…quite some time.  All their kids are little.  Don’t have enough money to hire help…”

Starsky turned to look at him.  “You want to offer to take over for the day?”

“Yeah.”  Hutch nodded, grinning a little.  “Let them have some time to relax.  And it’ll be good to do some ground chores.  Nobody has to know why I’m not flying today.”  He reached over and socked Starsky lightly in the arm.  “Do you good to muck out a few stalls, for old time’s sake.”

#

The family was uncertain at first.  It seemed almost too good to be true, a day in town.  They’d already done some of the morning chores, but there was plenty left to do, and the father had some concerns about their one mare that needed watching.  She was close to giving birth.  “Although she usually gives birth at night, so we’re probably all right.”  He ran his hand back through his hair, and then stuck his hand out impulsively for a shake.  “All right.  Thank you!”

So it was that two hours later Starsky and Hutch were finished clearing the barn stalls out, taking care of the animals’ needs, and had started cleaning up the housework.

Starsky washed the dishes while Hutch dusted and swept.  They heated the stove and warmed up some soup from yesterday; not a big meal, but neither felt really hungry yet.  

“Shouldn’t drink, Hutch.”  Starsky shook a soap-laden finger at him, grinning.

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.”  He swatted Starsky’s rear with the brush of the broom.

They repaired fence; they weeded the garden; they fed the chickens.  Hutch drew the line at doing washing.

“Ah, you’re a wimp!”

“Starsky, we’ve already put in a lot of work.  I’m not tackling…”

“Fine, then I’ll do it.”  Starsky stuck his tongue out, and rolled up his sleeves.  “You think she wants to tackle it all when she gets back?”

“You don’t even know when her wash day is!”

“You think she was gonna tell us it was today?  She looked so glad to get out of the house, I don’t think she’d have said anything no matter what.  You see the way she whipped her apron off, dried her hands quick, and went to fix her hair?”

Hutch frowned.  “I’ll heat the water.”

Two hours later, their hands and faces were red from the hot water.  “Didn’t know it was this hard, Hutch,” grunted Starsky.  He’d long since stripped down to a pair of cut-off jeans from his kit, and nothing else.  He was muddy from the knees down, soap-covered here and there, sweating and wet, his curls long since flattened.  Hutch would’ve laughed, if he didn’t know he looked just as bad.  He’d stripped to his jeans, and gotten just as soaked.

“It wouldn’t be so bad, except I have the awful feeling we’re doing it wrong,” he said.

“Well, we’re almost done now, so let’s not look back.  Help me hang up this last sheet an’ pretty soon we can go cool off.”

They got it draped over the line—after a fashion—although it didn’t seem to look as crisp and neat and sail-straight as whites on clotheslines usually looked.  They’d hung everything else in creative fashion, too, so the pants, shirts, undergarments, and handkerchiefs all wobbled on the line in the breeze, like drunken sailors.

“I still say we should’ve left the under things,” said Hutch, flushing a little again at the sight of a lady’s foundation garment.  

“Hutch, I told ya, we had the water heated!  Shame not to use it.  Anyway, you want her to have to wash a whole fresh batch just for a coupla lady things?”

Hutch had reflected that he didn’t mind that idea very much at all.  But he’d went along and helped Starsky, anyway.

After they finished, and dumped the rinse water on the garden, they pumped buckets of cold water and dumped them over themselves, and shivered as the heat and soap washed off them.

Then Starsky went to check the pregnant mare and Hutch went to raid the icebox and see what they could have for supper.

“She’s real pretty, Hutch.”  Starsky’s voice at his shoulder startled him, and he bumped his head.  “Sorry, Hutch.  Got any carrots in there?”

Hutch cast him a censorious glance.  “Carrots would be in the root cellar.”

“Right.”  Starsky whirled and headed away. 

“Starsky…!  Starsky, you are not going to waste their food supply on a horse!”

“Can’t help it, Hutch.  She’s a great girl, and she oughta have some kind of treat!”  He returned with two carrots, and headed out for the barn again.

Hutch rolled his eyes, and went back to clumsily slicing part of a cold ham, to make them sandwiches.

“Whoa.”  Starsky returned, and stopped short, raising his eyebrows at the sight of thick, misshapen slices of brown bread formed into sandwiches fat with poorly-sliced ham.

“I know, I know.”  Hutch frowned, ready to wave away the criticism.  The knives weren’t very sharp—and of course, he’d never been the best at sandwich assembly.

“Those are big sandwiches!”  Starsky grinned, and picked one up, turning it to admire all sides, and whistled.  “Now that’s a man’s sandwich!”  He took a huge bite, grinning.

And, Hutch couldn’t help it, he grinned back.  “Yeah, no little cucumber sandwiches for you!”

“Ham,” said Starsky, with relish.

#

They were sitting on the porch watching the sun set when the family came home.  The kids and parents all seemed exhausted and happy.  They’d been to visit relatives, and gotten a little shopping done (each of the children had been allowed to buy two pieces of penny candy), and had a meal at the restaurant in town.

The wife stopped and stared at the clothes on the wash line, but she did manage to thank them with nearly a straight face.  The children weren’t quite so tactful, and laughed hard at the thought of grown men doing laundry—and so poorly.  They stopped laughing when their father swatted one of them, and told them to be polite.

“We had some soup, and ham and bread for supper.  And, uh, well, I’ll see you,” said Hutch, rising awkwardly and unfolding himself, tired-limbed, from the porch.  “Best be getting back to my plane.”

“Hutch.”  Starsky caught his arm, sounding fierce and angry and quiet.  Hutch stilled, immediately.  “You ignored that—your bird all day long.  You are not going to start worrying about it now.  Now you get in here and sleep in a real bed tonight.  I insist.”

He did, too.

They washed up a little bit, climbed into nightshirts, and crawled into the bed in the room Starsky had rented.  It wasn’t very wide, but Starsky lay on his side, close to the wall to make room, and Hutch was tired enough, and the bed was soft enough, that it felt spacious enough.

“Goodnight, Starsky,” he whispered.

The brunet gave him a sleepy nod as his eyelids drifted shut.

#

He woke up when Starsky was shaking him.

“Hutch,” he said urgently, and Hutch pushed the covers back and sat up, blinking at the oil lantern in Starsky’s hands, shielding his eyes from it with one hand.

“Hutch, the mare’s giving birth.  You’ve gotta come help.”

“Aw, Starsk.”  Hutch lay down again disgustedly and closed his eyes.  “Mares give birth all the time without my help.”

“Yeah, but she’s havin’ trouble.  Please, Hutch!  I told them you knew something ‘bout horses.  They could lose ‘em both if she don’t get some help.  There’s no vet out here—you know that.  Just you an’ me an’ them.  Wife’s beside herself—old horse of hers, almost a pet, an’ you know they can’t afford to replace any animals right now.  Please, Hutch?  Please?”

Hutch groaned.  _It’ll be like Dorothy again…_

“It won’t be like Dorothy.  I promise.”  Starsky made an X over his heart.  “If you try your best, and she don’t make it, I’ll get you out of there before it ends, before you can get so upset again.  Besides, you don’t even know this horse.  It can’t break your heart.  But it might break theirs.  Come on, Hutch.  Come on.”  He tugged and prodded at the blond.

“Starsk!  Okay, I’m coming!  Would you quit tugging?”

Starsky gave him a quick wet smack of a kiss on the forehead.  “Good boy. Knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.”  He picked up Hutch’s boots, and flung them into his hands.  “Hurry up!”  And in a clatter of his own boots, he was gone, leaving Hutch to wonder how Starsky had gotten out of bed in the first place without waking him.  Starsky had been scrunched against the wall, and...  Hutch shook his head, trying to figure out the logistics, and gave it up as a lost cause.

He just hoped the mare wasn’t.

He threw on clothes and boots, and hurried out to the barn.  The courtyard, looked different at night, lit by only the moon—a sinister, strange place.

“Here I am.”  He stopped awkward in the barn.  It was surprisingly cold here at night, even in July.

They looked up at him, the worried faces of the husband and wife, lit by the oil lantern, and Starsky’s serious gaze, breaking into a relieved smile at the sight of him.

Hutch glanced at the laboring mare, and felt the old creeping horror stir and come upon him, the thought of a dying horse, and only his inadequate help to save her.  But he rolled up his sleeves, dunked them into the waiting bucket, washed, and prepared to do his damndest to save another equine life, or two.

# 

Three hours later, exhausted almost past the point of exhaustion, his smile felt radiant, too wide—he couldn’t stop grinning, as he watched the little foal standing wobbling on its spindling legs, and the mother tending it.  He watched it begin to nurse.  He knew he wasn’t the only one in the room with tears in his eyes.  

This—this had been important.  Difficult and scary as it had been, the high from succeeding was one of the greatest thing he’d ever felt.  He looked at Starsky; their eyes met, and he knew Starsky was feeling somewhat the same.

Starsky reached across and gave him a punch on the shoulder, grinning his widest possible smile.

And then, Hutch had to do something, he turned and grabbed Starsky in a tight, rib-crushing hug, grabbing hold of Starsky as hard as he could and squeezing him close.  Starsky laughed, and returned the hug just as hard, not protesting at all.

“She’ll be okay now.  They’ll both be okay,” said the husband, as if to remind himself.  He and his wife slid arms around each other, smiling in relief.

The wife wiped at her eyes.  “Thank you, Ken.  Thank you both.  I’m so glad.”

“Me too,” said Hutch.  He lifted Starsky off his feet and swung him around.

They walked off together, to leave the couple alone in that precious moment, that quiet, sacred scene.

They washed up, and went back to bed.  

Starsky fell asleep instantly, going limp as the daughter’s ragdoll.  Hutch stayed awake a little longer, dabbled his fingers lightly on Starsky’s chest, stared at the ceiling, and thought.

Ch 4 

He woke up with the curly head rested on his chest.  The two of them were tangled together, Starsky’s leg hooked around his, Hutch gripping an arm around Starsky, and some of Starsky’s saliva drooling out on his chest.  He tousled the head to wake him, and set about extricating himself.

He made it out first, and was washed and dressed before Starsky had quite hauled himself out of bed.

“Beat you to the outhouse, too,” he said, and hurried out, his boots jangling on the wooden floor.  

“Huuutch!” complained Starsky, loudly.  The bed creaked as he finally got up.

#

At the end of another long day counting up their earnings, Starsky suggested a trip to town and the diner.  The kids had been bragging on the lemon meringue pie there, and Starsky’s mouth had been watering for it all day.

“And you can steer Red, if you want.”  He looked up at Hutch hopefully.  “Hm?”

Hutch bit his lip a little to hide his grin.  “Who could resist an offer like that?”

They rode to town on Red, Hutch ‘steering,’ Starsky sitting contentedly behind him, holding on to the horse with his legs the way he’d been taught, barely needing to hold onto Hutch at all for balance.  He talked the whole way there—mostly about the foal and mare.  It had been Starsky’s first time witnessing a birth.

“You really are a city boy at heart, aren’t you?” said Hutch, without looking back.  He gave the reins another gentle tap, encouraging Red to step up the pace a bit.

“Not anymore,” answered Starsky seriously.  “I love it out here.  And imagine that—a real live horse giving birth!”

Hutch smiled.  Though he’d witnessed the same thing many times himself, it had seemed magical to him, too.

“Starsk.”

“Yeah, Hutch?”

“Uh—nothing.  Go ahead—keep talking.”

“Oh.  Okay.  Well, did you see its cute little mane?  How can it have a mane already, Hutch, hm?”

#

“Starsk,” said Hutch, playing with his fork and a piece of the leftover golden crust.  

“Hm?”  Starsky looked up, and lowered his plate.  He’d been licking it.

“You ever think about settling down?”

“Sure.  Plenty of times.  Mostly when I’m gettin’ tired.”  He licked his fork.  “But settlin’ down can be pretty tirin’ too.”

Hutch nodded.  “Nothing’s easy.”  He watched Starsky, who was beginning to eye the last piece of crust on Hutch’s plate.  “So you ever think about, you know, actually doing it?”

“Hm?”  Starsky looked up, and started.  He’d been reaching forward to steal the crust from Hutch’s plate.

Hutch held his plate out, and Starsky picked it off with a thank-you smile.  He ate it, and the question finally seemed to register.  “Settling down, you mean.”  He looked at Hutch.

“That’s right.  Any plans?”

“Mm, nah.  I think I’ll stick with you.”  His smile widened.

“Thanks, partner.  That’s…nice.  But I don’t want you sacrificing your independent life…”

“Hutch, we had this conversation the other night.”

“Oh.  You remember that, huh?”

“Sure.  You were drunker.”

“Hardly.  Anyway, it’s not an either-or thing.  We could go together and buy a small place.  Maybe raise some cows, train a few horses.”  He raised his eyebrows and made an expressive face, a shrug with both hands.  “Worth a thought.”

Starsky grinned, wider than ever.  “Hutch, you mean it?  Buy a place together?”

“Well, sure, why not?  When we’re ready to settle down and have enough money.  Lots of ranches have duel owners.  We’ve gotten along fine this long.  I see no reason to break up the partnership, unless of course one of us wants to for some reason.”

“Won’t be me.”  Starsky grinned delightedly.  “Our own place!  Man, what a great idea.  Guess it’s a good thing we’ve been socking away so much…”

Hutch gave him a look—they weren’t the only people in the diner, after all—and Starsky blinked once, slowly.  “Guess we’d better start saving, then,” he said louder, in a flat voice.  His eyes smiled at Hutch, but the rest of his face had turned impassive.  

They’d have to talk about just how much they had saved—and how much they’d need—later.

#

Later, lying on the grass of a great grass swath, looking at the sky, Red grazing nearby, they talked more freely about the details.

Starsky’s hands rested on his belly, as if encouraging it to digest.  He gave it an affectionate pat once, as if it was a horse and he was pleased with its work.  Hutch raised an eyebrow and grinned at his partner’s unselfconsciousness.

“So we’ve saved how much again?”  He’d been letting Starsky take care of finances.  Horses were much less likely to crash and burn, taking down a pile of savings with them.  Not that Hutch ever expected to crash the Jenny, but you couldn’t be too careful.

Starsky named the figure.  It made Hutch blink.  It wasn’t as much as his savings had been before he bought the Jenny, but it was darn good for two men for six months work in this economy.

“And we’d have to work how long for a decent piece of land, an overhead for cattle, and all the stuff it takes to make a ranch?”

“Dunno, Hutch, but it looks like awhile, even with what we have now.”  He cast him an apologetic glance.

“Well, I can just sell the Jenny.”

Starsky snorted.  “Hutch, you make more from that piece of ju—I mean, the bird, than you could ever make selling it.”

Hutch’s eyes narrowed.  “Piece of what?”

“Airplane.  Piece of airplane.  Anyway.  Maybe you can earn more again in crop dusting season.  Didn’t do too bad earlier, and there’s always somebody who needs crops dusted.  Maybe if we go to Florida, for the orange crop…”

“No.”

“No?”  Starsky raised one eyebrow, mildly.  Hutch didn’t usually override him like that.

“I mean, I’d rather go west.  I was thinking…they have air races, out in California.  I’ve read about it.  Maybe I could earn some money out there.  Or hook up with a group.  Flying circuses might earn more than we can, just hopping around these backwaters.”  He spread a hand wide to indicate the prairie.  “Sure, this is where we’d like to settle, out in the great open spaces, but you’ve got to admit, where people are is where the money is.  So let’s head to civilization.  Er, you know what I mean.  More developed areas.”  He squinted up at Starsky, who had risen suddenly at the word ‘civilization.’

“Sure, Hutch.”  He held a hand down, to help him up.  “Let’s go now.”

#

They hopped from town to town, heading towards the west coast.  Starsky started out ahead, paving the way for Hutch with his salesmanship techniques; Hutch arrived in town, began to sell rides, and once the ball got rolling, Starsky headed out for the next town.  Hutch stayed as long as he could get work, then started out to join Starsky at the next town.

The travel was hard, and often lonely, but it seemed more purposeful now.  Hutch wasn’t running from something; he was working towards something, he and Starsky together.

Occasionally they got a rare day to spend together.  One was a Sunday when they happened to both be in the same town, and Hutch was prevented from selling rides on Sunday by request of the town leaders; they felt it wouldn’t be respectful of the Sabbath.

“It’s not my Sabbath,” said Starsky.  “Nobody worries about respectin’ that!”

“Starsk.  Come on.  Don’t worry about it.  We need a day off anyway.”

Instead of moping, they took went to a nearby lake for a swim.  It was the most enjoyable day Hutch had had for a long time.  Starsky had never learned to swim, and one day wasn’t enough time to really teach him properly, but he had a lot of fun anyway.  They spent most of the time splashing back and forth, and later, fishing, and stretching out on the grass by the lake drying off in the sun.

“Hey…Starsk?”

“Yeah, what?”  He turned his head to look at Hutch, still squinting from staring at the sky.

“I’ve been thinking.  I…think I’d like to be a father someday.  Remember the foal?  Bringing that new life into the world?  Well, I’ve been thinking on and off ever since…I’d be a good father.  I’d like to bring somebody into the world, and take care of them and…and teach them what they need to know.”

Starsky snorted.  “Hutch, what do you need a kid for to do that?  You’ve got me.”

“Starsky, you’re not my kid!  I didn’t bring you into this world…but I can bring you out.”  He turned a feral, threatening smile on his friend.

Starsky rolled his eyes.  “You’d be a good dad, Hutch.  I’m not sayin’ you wouldn’t.  Just…one thing at a time, okay?  We were gonna buy a spread—our own place—and now you want to rush off and get married instead.  Well, make up your mind.”  He shrugged.  “Need to pick something, and stick with it.”

“Starsk, I didn’t mean run off and not buy our place.  I meant sometime in the future…you know, if I can meet the right girl.  Just…wanted to say, let’s make sure to make our place big enough, you know, if one or both of us get married someday.”

Starsky snorted.  “You’ll probably send me out to live in the barn…”

“Dave.  I’d never do that.”  He reached across and punched him the arm.  “What, you think I’m gonna just set you out like so much trash?  You’re my partner.  Me and thee, pal.  Remember?”

Starsky looked at him, eyes squinting, weighingly.  At last he nodded.  “Okay, Hutch.  Okay.”  He laid a hand on Hutch’s arm.  “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Hutch made a face, embarrassed by those words.  He rolled over and got up, reaching for his jeans.  “Want to go into town and get something to eat?”

“Hutch.”  Starsky caught up with him, carrying his shoes, quick and lithe on his bare feet.  He’d slipped into his jeans, but not a shirt yet.  He squinted at Hutch, smiling a little, but half serious, too.  “I’m gonna tell you now, you wanna catch a nice girl, you’re gonna have to start washing your hair more.”

Hutch gave an outraged laugh.  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Gets kinda stringy, Hutch.  But when you keep it clean, they can’t stop staring.  You golden-headed Lothario.”  He gave Hutch a wink, and a slap on the butt, and raced past him, back towards the plane, and the horse, and civilization.

He stopped abruptly short of the plane, and stood staring at it.  Hutch caught up and stopped beside him, sliding an arm around him.  “What are you thinking about, Starsk?”

“That piece of junk.”  Starsky gestured to the Jenny, frowning.  “Gets to spend more time with you than I do.”

“Starsky, tell me you are not jealous of an airplane.”

“Sometimes.”  He raised one shoulder in a shrug.  “It takes you away.”  Then he turned to smile at Hutch, his expression softening.  “But other times I see you flying it, and I’m real proud.  And when I see you coming in for a landing, I’m always glad the bird brought you back safe.”

“You mean I brought the bird back safe.”

Starsky raised his shoulder again in a shrug.  “Whatever.  But I’ll never forgive it if it lets something happen to you.”  

He glared at the plane again, as if warning it.

#

At the next town where they met up, Starsky presented him with a nice homemade quilt.  “I got this for a good deal from a sweet little old lady.  It’ll be cold soon, Hutch, and I know ya sleep out in the open more nights than not.  Keep ya warm.”  He draped it around the blond’s shoulders, and gave him a pat on the chest.  He let his hand stay there a moment, and looked into Hutch’s face, rather worriedly.  “Aging you, Hutch?  Being out in the open?”

Hutch ran a hand back through his hair self-consciously and laughed.  “No.  Why?”

“Nothing.  Thought you looked kinda tired.”  He withdrew his hand.  “Try to find a barn to sleep in when you can, okay, Hutch?”

“When I can, Starsk.”  He hooked an arm around Starsky and pulled him into a hug, breathing the faintly horsey, sweaty smell of his shirt.  Then he drew back, and gave Starsky’s side a gentle touch.  “You too, huh?”

Ch 5 

It was two weeks later, nearly fall, soon time for harvest.  Hutch found little work in the latest town, and started out earlier than planned to the next one.

It was a little bigger than the one-building post-office, general store, and sheriff’s office towns they’d been frequenting recently.  This was a bigger than usual town, and Hutch figured even if for some reason Starsky hadn’t arrived yet, he could sell rides all by his lonesome for awhile.

He grasshoppered his way there, took the flight in easy stages.  He drew up outside the town where it looked like a bunch of horses and riders were busy with a race.

A rider galloped into the clearing, waving frantically.  Pulling his hat off and waving and whistling.  Starsky, on Red.  Hutch hopped down from the Jenny, put the chocks in place, and smiled at Starsky, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops, waiting for him.  Something had certainly gotten him excited.

“Hey, Hutch!  Look!”  As he drew to a halt by the plane, Red snorting and pawing at the ground as if he were excited, too, Hutch could see the cash clutched in Starsky’s hand.  “Look, Hutch!”  He hopped off the horse, and danced a little in place, shoving the cash towards Hutch.  “Twenty bucks!  I made twenty bucks racing.  I came in third.”

Hutch’s smile died.  “Racing?”  He had a quick mental image of Starsky, who’d barely been riding for a year, falling.  Red, the once-wild horse reverting to his wicked ways in public, Starsky getting trodden underfoot by the other horses, broken or killed…  “Starsk, you don’t know enough…”

Starsky drew himself up.  “I do, too!  We practice every day when we travel—me an’ Red, racin’ the wind!  Shows what you know!  Sides, I thought you’d be happy.  This is money for our ranch.  Now we can get it sooner.”

“Yeah, Starsk.  Great job—risking your life for twenty bucks!”  He turned back to his plane, but not before he glimpsed the ridiculously hurt expression flit across Starsky’s face.  Starsky clamped down on it with a blank look, the look he always used to cover his hurt.  Hutch ignored him, too mad and scared yet to think straight.

“Hutch.”  Starsky walked over, grabbed his shoulder, and whirled him around, shoving him back against the plane.  He’d gotten strong.  “Don’t you give me that.  You risk your life every day in that damn plane, and do I say a word about it?  No.  Even when I’d like to burn the stupid thing to the ground, I don’t.  Don’t you…don’t you DARE.  You ass—you’re just mad it wasn’t you!”

“Oh yeah?”  Hutch pushed away from his plane, and gave Starsky a shove on the shoulders.  “Mad it wasn’t me almost killed in an idiotic race, when I could’ve—and should’ve—been out selling tickets?  I suppose you do this kind of thing all the time, when I’m not here?  When the cat’s away, the mice will play.  Have a lot of fun, risking your stupid neck on any race or stunt or…or dare you can find?”

“Maybe I do!”  Starsky was shouting now, too.  “And maybe I’ve made almost a hundred bucks racing!  And maybe I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d act like a jerk, instead of—of saying, ‘Good work, Starsky.  Now we can get our ranch sooner.’  No—you gotta always be right.  ‘Hutch knows more about horses—Starsky couldn’t possibly learn to ride good in a year.’  Even though I’ve been riding practically every damn day—an’—an’ since when do you own me just because you saved my life?  I’m not a little kid!  You don’t get to decide what’s best for me forever!”

He stood breathing hard, glaring at Hutch, flushed and fists clenched.  

Hutch felt himself going pale, felt the blood draining from his face.  “You’re right, Starsk.”  He nodded, once.  “I don’t get to decide everything.  In fact, you and me—we shouldn’t be teamed up at all.  A pilot and a—a jockey.  What’s the point?  So give me my half of the money—not your racing money!  The flying money!  And we’ll call it quits.”  He held a hand out, looking at Starsky steadily and coldly.

Starsky stared at him, breathing hard, and then made a chuffing sound, as if he were an unhappy horse.  “Okay, fine.”  He strutted back over to Red, and flung open a saddlebag.  “Got it all r-right…”  His voice died away, and for a moment Hutch thought, _He lost it_.  

But no, Starsky came out with a leather satchel, fumbled with it, and began counting out money left and right onto piles on the grass.

Hutch stared at him kneeling in the grass, counting carefully.  His lip was at a stubborn jut, and his hands were trembling.  Even the little mole on Starsky’s face looked forlorn.

“Starsky,” said Hutch.  Just like that, his anger flitted away.  He dropped to the grass beside him, on his knees.  “Sorry, Starsk.  Sorry.  Hey.  I don’t mean it.”  He reached out to touch Starsky’s shoulder tentatively, half expecting to be shoved away and glared at, maybe even punched.

Starsky stopped counting the money.  He kept looking down at the ground.  “I’m good, Hutch,” he said at last, in a quiet, trembly voice.  “I can ride real good now.”  He turned to look at Hutch, his eyes suspiciously shiny.  “Don’t be like that.  I can ride good.  Don’t you trust Red and me?”

Hutch thought for a moment.  “Don’t you trust the Jenny?”

Starsky shook his head, broadly and sadly.  “Not for a second.”

“Well, that’s how I feel about Red.  He’s a great horse, but I don’t trust him with your life.”  He squeezed Starsky’s shoulder.  “So be careful out there, okay?  I’m sorry I overreacted.  I don’t want to stop being partners.”

Starsky looked at him a moment, nodded, and then turned back to stare down at the incomplete little piles of money.  At last, he gathered them up and shoved them haphazard into the satchel again.  He scraped a hand back through his hair.  “Knew ya’d take it bad, Hutch, but I didn’t think ya’d take it that bad.  Tryin’ to send me away.”  

Then he turned a surprisingly fierce gaze on Hutch.  “Do it again, and I might just go!  See if I don’t.”  He settled down, with his legs tucked under him.  “Don’t ya know threatening to make somebody leave ain’t the best way to make ‘em be safer?”

“Starsk, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”  His head was beginning to clear now and he thought, _Okay, Starsky’s racing.  I can deal with this._   And then he wondered… _How long?_   “Besides, I knew…”  He stopped, reddening suddenly, realizing maybe he shouldn’t say that bit.

“Knew what?”  Starsky’s keen eyes were on him, trying to ferret out the secret.

Hutch looked down, and then back at Starsky, smiling a little, awkward and embarrassed.  “I knew you’d never leave me.”  He gave Starsky another light sock on the arm, and grinned when the dark-haired man grimaced in chagrin.

“Doesn’t mean you should test it, Hutch!”

“Okay—okay, Starsk.  I shouldn’t test it.”

#

After a good day’s work, selling a lot of plane rides, they paid someone to watch the plane, keep it from getting stolen, and spent the night in a rented room.  Hutch checked thoroughly for bedbugs, first.  They’d been burned before on one-night rentals.

“Clean, I think.”  He looked up to see Starsky was already barefoot and had changed into his threadbare nightshirt.

“That thing’s positively indecent,” said Hutch.

“It’s too hot for long underwear.”

“And I’ve seen your red long underwear.  That’s indecent as well.”

Starsky made a face and crawled into bed, holding the sheet up so Hutch could climb in.  Neither had suggested getting two rooms.  The room, and the bed, were awfully small, but Hutch felt (and wondered if Starsky felt it too), that they needed to be close tonight, to get over their awful fight.

It was the first time he and Starsky had fought—really fought.  And as brief as it had been, he still felt shaken by it.  He’d almost broken what they had.  Completely broken it.

He finished changing and crawled in next to Starsk.  “This okay?” he asked, lying on his side so he wouldn’t crowd the brunet.

“Mmhm.”  Starsky was already beginning to drift off, Hutch noticed with jealousy.  He’d been halfway hoping they could talk tonight; but Starsky’s gentle snores soon filled the room.  

With a quiet sigh, Hutch settled down to that now-unfamiliar sound, and tried to sleep.  It had been a long day.  Why should he have any trouble?  But sometimes he did, anyway…

The next morning, when they were changing, Hutch happened to glance up and glimpse a long red mark on Starsky’s thigh.  He’d been pulling up his nightshirt, and for a moment his firm legs had been clearly visible.

“Starsk.”  Hutch moved forward.  “What’s wrong?  How’d you get that?”  He knew it hadn’t been there when they’d gone swimming a little over a month ago.

“Huh?  Uh, nothin’, Hutch.”  Starsky looked embarrassed, and pulled his shirt down quickly.  “Go on—get your boots on.  Don’t you have somethin’ to do besides stare at me?”  He waved at Hutch, frowning.

“Starsk.”  Hutch moved forward, lifting the edge of the shirt, and staring at Starsky’s injured thigh.  “How’d you do it?”  He traced the red mark with two fingers.

Starsky pulled away.  “Don’t!”

“It still hurts?  I’m sorry.  How’d you—”  He looked up, gently.  He wasn’t going to yell, no matter what, but he also wasn’t going to stop asking.

“Racing, okay?  I was racing, and I…I fell.  Cut myself on a rock or somethin’.  But I’m okay.  Red didn’t mean to drag me.”

“Drag you?  How far?”

“Just a…just a couple feet.”  Starsky squinted at him, one eye shut further than the other, looking belligerent.

They stared at each other, solemn-eyed.  “You’re planning to go racing again, aren’t you?” he asked quietly.  “Over and over until you get really hurt.  On that damn horse.”  He turned away, busying himself folding his nightclothes.  “I never should’ve helped you get him.”

“Hey, you give up flyin’, I’ll give up racin’.  Till then, save your sermons, buddy.  I’m doin’ this for you, too.”  He shimmied into his jeans, yanked the zipper up, and pulled the nightshirt off over his head.  Here on his thin, muscular chest, Hutch saw more red marks, poorly healing lines from being dragged on the ground.  

His jaw tightened.  “Starsk, I think it’s only fair to warn you.”

“What?”  Starsky’s jaw jutted defiance.  They hadn’t solved anything overnight; not really.

“I think it’s only fair to warn you.  If you get yourself all scarred—and maybe even maimed—and you won’t be able to attract a nice wife.  You’ll just have to watch, while I marry myself a pretty little thing and raise a passel of kids.  You’ll be old, scarred Uncle David.  Limping, scarred, ugly David.”

He knew it was a stupid threat, but it was the best he could think of on such short notice.

Starsky snorted, buttoning up his flannel shirt with quick, clumsy fingers.  “Tell that to someone stupider than me, Hutch.  If I survived the war, I can survive a few scrapes and bruises.  And I’ve never had trouble gettin’ girls to notice me, neither.”  He ran his fingers back through his hair, fluffing it up, gave Hutch another glare, and then fitted his cowboy hat onto his head at a rakish angle that nearly hid his eyes.  He picked up his bags, yanked the door open, and started out.

Hutch glared after him.  Then punched his thigh, and sat down, biting his lip.  It was fruitless to tell himself he shouldn’t worry about Starsky.  Of course he shouldn’t worry about Starsky; the man had more lives than a cat.  But somehow he could never forget the vulnerable guy whose life he’d rescued.  As strong as Starsky had become, that specter still haunted Hutch.  And Hutch had lost too much in life to just shrug his shoulders now.

There was only one thing for it.  Earn enough money—and quickly—to get Starsky off the race track and onto their own ranch, where he belonged.

#

That day, between giving airplane rides, he listened to Starsky’s cheerful voice, calling out the merits of flying.  Perky and cheerful.  You’d never know he was mad at Hutch…

After work, when it was getting too dark to fly, they paid the same man to watch the plane—an ex-army man, a fierce-looking fellow with several large guns—and headed their separate ways.  

Starsky was no doubt going to find another race—burning the candle at both ends, the idiot.

As for Hutch, he went to the nearest bar, where men were gathering and losing their brainpower to the comfort of drink.  He took a drink, pretending to be already half falling down drunk, and began to loudly bet that he could ride any horse, anytime, anywhere.

#

When he rode the first horse, he won five dollars, and got a bone-jolting.  But that was okay; that didn’t faze him.  There wasn’t a horse alive that Hutch couldn’t ride.  

“Bet he can’t ride Old Blue,” said someone, and soon the bet was on—ten bucks this time, only he had to take another shot of whiskey—Hutch guessed they didn’t completely trust his drunken act, not from a man who could sit a horse that well.

“You’re on.”  He shook on it.

Old Blue was a tough customer; the bone jolting lasted longer this time; but Hutch rode him to a standstill, and came down the winner to applause.  The man didn’t want to pay up, but fortunately there was a big crowd by this time; he slapped the money into Hutch’s hand, scowling.

“Now since I’ve seen all this here little ol’ town can throw at me, I’ll just be on my way.”  He tucked the money into his pocket, and grinned drunkenly, challengingly all around.

“Wait just a minute.”  Another man walked up, leading a terrible-looking horse.  To start off with, it was a giant, the size of a full-grown plow horse, not a riding horse at all.  And the fire in that fellow’s eyes…

“Twenty bucks says you can’t ride Ol’ Slew Foot for more than two minutes—and Doc Brown over there will time it.”  He gestured to a bewhiskered man with a silver pocket watch.

“How ‘bout if I ride him to a standstill?”  Hutch grinned drunkenly, leaning towards the man and breathing fumes in his face.

The man jerked back.  “Fifty bucks—but you’ll never make it.”

“Heheheh.  Give him the money to hold, and watch me.”

The man looked at him weighingly—then nodded.  “All right.  Fifty bucks—you’re on.  But if you fall off aforehand, you don’t get one thin dime.”  He spat tobacco juice on the ground.

“Shake.”  Hutch stuck out his hand, grinning.

This horse was different; he could feel it the second he got on the horse’s back.  Hutch was a big man, and he’d never run across a horse he couldn’t keep some measure of control over.  But this horse barely seemed to notice he was on his back—except to be annoyed by him.

Hutch found himself hanging on for dear life, as he got the jolting of it.  The ground flashed by at tremendous speeds, blurring, and far away.  He clung on with his knees, his hands, his steely determination—and still the horse nearly threw him twice, three times.  When it scraped against a fence, he didn’t have the strength to steer it away, as he’d done with Red.

The great, mean, rotten beast gashed his thigh along the fence for at least three feet before rearing away again, and coming down hard, then bucking again, throwing up, up.  Hutch’s seat actually left the horse’s back for a second—first time that had happened since he was ten years old, and then his pa had whipped him for not keeping a better seat.  He hung on, yanked himself back down, and tangled his hands in the horse’s mane and reins, and tightened his knees and legs around that giant horse’s back with all his strength.  

_You’re not beating me, buddy!_ But even as he fought for what felt like his life, Hutch couldn’t help thinking… _This is some horse!_

At last, when it felt like he’d ridden for approximately two and a half years, the horse took one last buck, and stopped, landing on all four feet, and lowering his head.  His back twitched uncomfortably, as if Hutch were a fly he wished to send away, and he snorted.  Hutch sat still, jolted, bleeding, aching, wary.  Then, carefully, he loosened one hand from the reins and the mane, and reached down to pat the giant horse.  He found himself talking to it.

“There ya go, buddy.  That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

After a few minutes for them both to calm down, he turned the horse about with the reins.  With only a disgusted snort, Ol’ Slew Foot obeyed.  The giant beast clopped back towards the open-mouthed crowd and the bet, with Hutch sitting triumphant and bloody on his back.

“I’ll take that fifty now, Doc.  Thanks.”

He tossed the reins back to the horse’s shocked owner, and slid stiffly from Slew Foot’s back.  He counted the cash carefully, and pocketed it.

“Might want to get that leg looked at, son,” said the Doc, spitting some tobacco juice.

_Ugh.  Not from a man with hands as stained as yours._   “I’ll be fine.”  He wobbled away, walking stiff and achy.  The pain in his leg began to feel real, now that the excitement was over.  He looked down, to see his pant leg shiny with blood.

“Hutch.”  The quiet voice at his side, and the touch to his back.  He turned, suddenly glad to see Starsky.  

“Starsk.”  A grin lit his face.  “Don’t suppose you saw that?”  He lifted his hat and swept it off in a bow.  He straightened, a little wobbly.  “My finest hour.”

“Yeah.”  Starsky’s eyes were sober and dark.  He was watching Hutch, and kept a hand on him, gentle.  “You win, Hutch.  I’m good at racing, and me and Red both like it.  But—if you’re gonna play like this, you win—I’ll quit, never run another race again.”  He looked down at Hutch’s hurt leg, and his mouth tightened.  “Let’s get you stitched up.”

Hutch took another step forward, and felt lightheaded.  He stumbled, and would’ve gone down if not for Starsky’s warm hands, supporting him.  It was a great comfort, not to fall in the dirt.

“Starsk,” he said, holding onto his arms, looking up at him, as Starsky tried to keep him from falling.  “It wasn’t like that.  Wanted to make money—for you, for us.  So you could quit.  We could buy our ranch.”

Starsky got him hooked up, so he was halfway carrying him, and the rest of the way supporting him.  “Aw, Hutch.  Come on.  Get you to the doctor’s.  You’re all right.”  His warm hand on Hutch’s back poured soothing calm into Hutch’s flesh, through his shirt.  So warm.  

_Of course I’m all right_ , he thought.  _Just a little wonky.  That was some ride.  That’s some horse._   “Not the tobacco doc,” he mumbled, resting his head on Starsky’s shoulder.

Ch 6

Eight hours later, Hutch lay on a comfortable, clean bed—a bigger one than last night, and with cleaner sheets.  Starsky wasn’t taking any chances on him, and kept fussing around, adjusting the pillows, bringing him water, or otherwise fiddling around trying to baby him.

“Maybe I had too much to drink after all,” said Hutch.  “I don’t usually go down like that, injury or no.”  He patted the bed beside him, so Starsky would sit and calm down for a minute.  

Hutch’s leg was hurting in earnest now, and he wanted to talk, to distract himself from the pain.  Getting eight stitches had been no picnic.

“Did you drink on an empty stomach?”  Starsky sat beside him, and pushed the hair off Hutch’s forehead, laying his hand there to test his temperature.  Starsky still looked worried about him, poor guy.  He pursed his lips, and then drew his hand away. “I guess you’re okay for now.  How ya feelin’?”

“Like crap.”

“You do?  Maybe you need to drink some more, then.  Take care of the pain.  Or I can get some more laudanum…”

“No, I don’t want to take that stuff.  Some folks get to taking it and can’t stop.  I don’t want that.”

“No, me neither,” said Starsky quietly, but as though he were thinking about other things entirely.  “Hutch.”  He looked up quickly.  “I been thinkin’, an’…maybe we could…could get our ranch now.”

“What?”  Hutch blinked at him, a slow blink, confused and tired.  If only his leg would stop hurting.  It had been dumb, he supposed, to pull that stunt, but even so he found he couldn’t regret it.  He’d felt so alive, riding that giant horse.  That amazing, wonderful, intelligent, terrible horse.

Starsky nodded solemnly.  “Put on a down payment.  Maybe—maybe work some more, flyin’ an’ what-not, if we don’t do good enough with the cattle.  You can always hire somebody to watch the animals for a few weeks, while we go flying.”  He looked at Hutch solemnly, and Hutch realized what it was costing him to say this.  “Keep the Jenny, Hutch.”

“Really?  You won’t worry about me every time I fly?”

He scowled.  “Of course I will, Hutch.  But ya love it, so how can I take that away from you?  Besides, if it’ll stop you riding deadly great horses…”  He shrugged.  “How can I ask ya to give that up?”

Hutch swallowed.  “Thanks, partner.  And you know, maybe—maybe I shouldn’t ask you to give up racing, either.”  He gave him another smile, and another slow blink.  

Starsky stared at him.  “You mean it?”

“Sure do.  Only—be careful, okay?  And let me watch your technique, see if I can give you some tips so you don’t get hurt again.”  He brought a hand down to rest on Starsky’s thigh, near where he knew the red wound lay.

Starsky shifted a little under his hand; perhaps he’d gotten too close after all.  He lifted his hand gently, and brought it trailing up Starsky’s chest, up to his chin.  He bopped it lightly, and then reached up to muss Starsky’s hair.

Starsky drew back, smiling.  “Ah, Hutch, you ol’ softy!”  He looked pleased as a cat with cream.  “You sure you’re not already drunk?”

Hutch shook his head.  “Nope.  And that whiskey is starting to sound pretty good right now, buddy.”

“All right, I’ll get it.”  The bed creaked as he rose.  

“Starsk.”  Hutch reached out and captured his sleeve.  

“What?”  Starsky turned back to him immediately, concern in his eyes.  “You need something else?”

Slowly, Hutch nodded.  “I need you to buy that horse for me.”

“What?!”

#

He talked Starsky into it eventually, of course—but not for several days.  By then he was feeling much better, and his leg was nearly healed.

“I just don’t see what good it’ll do to buy a great big evil horse like that—even if you did ride him once.  Once, Hutch!  Just once!”  And he’d glare and go slam something.

“Starsk,” said Hutch quietly, and Starsky always came back to him, reluctantly, eventually, to listen to more reasons.  “In the first place, it’ll be a great help on our ranch.  A giant horse like that?  He can do a lot of plowing and herding without getting tired.  Ain’t a cow on this earth that could outrun me on that bruiser.  And, Starsk…”  He trailed a hand up Starsky’s arm, fingering his muscles beneath the flannel, looking up at him, appealing for his understanding.  “I like him.  He’s…he’s my new horse, Starsk.”

Starsky stared at him, unhappy-looking, frowning as he tried to resign himself to this.  At last he nodded.  “All right, Hutch.  I don’t know why you pick the damndest things—but all right.  I’ll go buy him.”

“Starsk.”  He smiled up at the worried-looking man.  “I picked you, didn’t I?”

That made Starsky grin, and duck his head, and say, “Quit being an idiot.”  

#

“What you need to do, Starsk, is pull your stupid routine.”

“Stupid routine?!”  Starsky drew back, an offended look on his face.

“Yeah.  Act like you don’t know anything about horses.  Pretend you think you’re all kinds of a man, and want the biggest thing you can buy.  Or—well—you’ll figure it out,” he added hastily, at the ominous look Starsky was giving him.  “And get him for a good cheap price, too.  Pretend you want it for dog meat, if you have to.”

“Hutch, I’m not an idiot.  I could out-haggle you when I was a baby.”

Hutch snorted.  “Of course you could, because I was a baby too—and you’re five months older, so you’d be speaking before me.”

“Don’t bet on it.  I was the strong, silent type of baby.”

Hutch grinned at him, not even sure what they were arguing about anymore, just knowing there wasn’t anyone in the world he’d rather be talking to.

Starsky got up, sighing.  “All right.  I’ll go buy your horse, and then, supper.  Okay?  You up for that nice steak place?”  He raised his eyebrows.

“You bet, Starsk.  I’ll just get my cane, and hobble down to the restaurant, because my bestest buddy in the world wouldn’t bring me a plate—”

Starsky gave a yelp of frustration, and hit him with a pillow.  “Honest, Hutch, how long can ya milk a hurt leg?!  I’ve seen ya walk when you want to!”

“All right!  All right!”  Hutch raised his hands, surrendering to the merciless pillow wielder.  “I’ll walk down to eat with you.”

“That’s better.”  Starsky lowered the pillow, smiling.  “And you don’t ride that horse again till I say you’re well enough.”

“Bossy boots,” said Hutch, affectionately.  

Starsky raised the pillow again.

“Okay!”  Hutch held up his hands.  “Not till you say.”

“Good boy.”  Starsky plopped the pillow into his hands, gave him a pat on the arm, and left.  His footsteps were bouncy.

#

He got the horse, and for a great price, too.  

Hutch worked with the horse, whom he renamed Strider for his long stride, making it trot in a circle on a rope, feeding and brushing the horse until he began to calm down in the presence of humans.  There was still a challenging look in his eyes, as if he were weighing whether he could throw Hutch off the next time, but there was time for that.  For now, he listened well enough—to a non-riding Hutch.

Once Hutch was well enough, they started out, the four of them (Starsky, Hutch, and the two horses), and the airplane, to search for a place to lay down roots.

Hutch laid out ideals to look for.  “We need somewhere with good water, plentiful grass…”

Starsky had a different plan.  “Stop when you find a place that looks like home.”

Hutch laughed, and nodded.  “You’re right, Starsk.  A place that looks like home.”

The way they did it was, Hutch flew ahead, looking for good spots, and came back to stay with Starsky, and plan the next direction to take every few days.  Starsky kept care of both horses.  He never quit complaining about Hutch’s new horse, but by the second day, he was feeding it treats and seemed proud of its huge size, and the way it so easily kept up with Red’s raw power.

After eight days, Starsky put his foot down.  It was too hard to hunt for a place together when they were always apart.  So, reluctantly, Hutch put his plane into storage—paying a farmer what felt like a needlessly large amount of money to protect it for him and keep it out of harm’s way.

Then he rode Strider next to Red, and the two horses and two men started out, together.

He got closer to his horse than he’d have imagined possible in such a short time, taming it further, bonding with it, spoiling and combing it.  A part of himself he’d thought he’d never use again felt like it was healing, coming alive again.  And he enjoyed getting to spend time with Starsky each day, listen to the dark-haired man chatter and joke.  Sometimes they talked about everything; sometimes, it seemed like they’d been talking about nothing, and yet they’d been talking for hours.  Other times, the silence was comfortable and long, familiar and relaxing stretched between them and their horses.

On cold nights, they built a fire and slept on either side of it.  Sometimes Hutch laid awake, staring at the stars, feeling grateful for the wide open spaces, for his horse, and for Starsky.

They told each other stories.  He listened to the tales of Starsky’s early life, and shared his own.  Once in awhile, they even tackled the still-painful memories of the war.  Oddly, bringing up those old wounds seemed to lessen their pain, old losses remembered aloud easing the burdening, silent weight on their shoulders.

They travelled here and there, searching for a good climate, a spot of land they could build on or a ranch they could afford, a place that felt like home.  

Sometimes Hutch thought he’d be happy searching forever, as long as they stuck together.  Of course, sometimes he missed flying, but riding his horse—thundering across the plain beside Starsky—well, that felt almost like flying.

One day they stopped at a broken down old farm that looked abandoned.  Hutch had a feeling building in his stomach the moment he saw it, but he didn’t want to say anything to Starsky, at least not yet.  

The sign out front said “For Sail” in crooked letters.  Beneath that, “See the bank” in less crooked letters.  They dismounted, watered their horses, and started looking around.

As they checked it over, Hutch’s feeling solidified: plenty of good pasture, and water.  And it felt like home.  He kept his mouth shut, and let Starsky look it over for himself in peace.

“Hutch.”  Starsky burst out of the broken-down old house, grinning from ear to ear.  He stopped suddenly, and pulled his face into a semblance of seriousness.  “I mean, take your time.”

“No, Starsk.  Tell me.  What is it?”  He gave Strider a pat, and left him tethered next to Red, both horses drinking from a trough he’d just filled.

“Uh, they got—I just…”  He scraped a hand back through his hair, frowning a little.  “Just take your time, Hutch.”

Hutch took a chance.  “Kinda…feels like home to you, huh, Starsk?”

Starsky made a grimace, and nodded ruefully.  “Yeah, sorry, Hutch.  Don’t wanna pressure you.  You take your time.  We don’t have to pick this place.”

Hutch stepped onto the porch, smiling, and slid an arm around Starsky’s shoulder.  “Ah, but I want to, too.”

Starsky grinned, turning and smiling up at him.  “Really?  Think we can afford it?”

“In this economy—maybe!  Let’s look around a little more, and then see about that bank.”  He gave Starsky a gentle swat on the side, and disengaged himself.  

“Aw, great, Hutch!  I think you’re gonna like it.  Look, it’s real big inside—plenty of rooms, not much wrong with it.  We can repair it ourselves.  And there’s room for kids and everything…”

Smiling and chatting, they walked inside to finish looking around.  
  
---


End file.
